Dozens of people surrounded him. They wore long, dark coats with many pockets, or with hooks and buttons and attached pouches hanging on crosswise leather straps. Some were men and some were women; they had hair and skin of all shades, and eyes that glimmered like puddles. A gray pigeon nestled against the neck of one sleek-haired woman. A live raccoon was draped around the collar of a man with a ponytail. A few people wore giant spiders on their lapels like brooches. One very tall, thin man with tousled gray hair and rigid cheekbones carried two big black rats on either shoulder.
There was so much to see that, for just a second, Van forgot to be terrified.
“So, boy,” said the very tall man with the rats and the rigid cheekbones, and Van realized that this was where the deep, clear voice had come from. When he spoke, everyone else went silent. “Tell us who you are.”
“I’m . . . I’m Van,” Van gulped. “Van Markson.” He stuck out one trembly hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The man stared at Van’s hand for a moment. When he finally reached out to grasp it, Van’s hand disappeared completely in his. “I am Nail,” said the tall man.
Without letting go, Nail took a slow, appraising look at Van, cocking his head to either side. Suddenly he stiffened. His hard cheekbones and long, narrow nose flashed closer, bringing both gigantic rats along.
“What is this?” he asked, straight into Van’s ear.
One of the rats put out its front feet and balanced itself on Van’s shoulder. Its whiskery nose sniffed at Van’s earlobe.
“Oh. That.” Van raised his free hand, brushing the whiskers away. “That’s my hearing aid.”
Nail’s eyes narrowed. “Are you recording this? Or transmitting it to someone?” There was a murmur. The encircling crowd tightened. “Who are you working for?”
“I . . . I’m eleven,” said Van shakily. “I don’t work for anybody.”
“Then why do you wear a hidden microphone?”
“It’s not just a microphone,” said Van. “It helps me hear. It’s an amplifier and . . .”
But the crowd around him wasn’t listening. Their mutters and whispers surged over Van, swamping him in a dark wash of noise. Van’s heart pounded. He started to hum again, just loudly enough that his own voice pushed back against the wave of angry sound.
Dun da-dun DUNNN . . .
The rat continued to sniff at his earlobe. Her whiskers, as fine as frayed velvet, whispered against his skin. At last Van turned to face her—he felt strangely sure that it was a her—and found her beady eyes staring straight back into his.
Van was so used to not being noticed, even by other people—even by people who matched him in age and grade and number of legs—that being looked at so deeply was disconcerting.
Hello, he thought.
The rat stared at him for another moment. Then she turned and scampered back to her perch on Nail’s shoulder. She pressed her nose to Nail’s ear.
“Thank you,” Van thought he saw Nail’s lips murmur. His eyes flicked back to Van. “Other than the device in your ear,” said Nail, in a voice that made everyone else go quiet again, “you are ordinary?”
Van didn’t like the sound of this. The other-than part or the ordinary part. He didn’t like it any better than when Pebble had called him “just a little boy.” But the circle of dark-coated strangers still loomed around him, and the flight of stairs leading out of here was very long and very far away.
“Yes,” said Van. “I’m just a person.”
“A person,” Nail repeated. “But who are you with? Who do you belong to?”
“Well . . . I live with my mother,” Van began. “She’s a singer. She’s kind of famous. If you like opera, anyway. But right before I came here, I was at a birthday party, so I was with a bunch of people, if that’s what you—”
The big man named Jack pushed closer to Nail. “. . . found his way inside on his own,” Van heard him snarl.
“Yes.” Nail put up a hand, waiting for the crowd to still. “How did you manage to get inside, Van Markson?”
“I—I just . . . ,” stammered Van, “I followed the girl. Pebble. The one with the squirrel.”
“The girl?” Nail echoed. “This girl?” He nodded toward Pebble, who stood nearby, anxiously clenching and unclenching both hands. The squirrel on her head rose onto his hind legs and chittered defensively.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Pebble shouted. “I didn’t bring him here. I was just making a collection. I don’t know how he saw me!”
Nail turned back to Van. “How did you see her?”
“Well . . . the first time, she was right there, taking coins out of the fountain in the park. And the second time, at the birthday party—”
But the crowd had broken out in furious murmurs once again.
“Twice?” Nail’s voice barely carried through the rumble.
“We talked,” said Van. “She splashed me. I gave her a marble.”
But nobody was listening to him. Words overlapped, hisses and vowels smashing into each other, tangling into knots that squeezed around his body.
“. . . spoke with him?” boomed a voice from somewhere over Van’s shoulder.
“Little boy!” shouted another voice. “. . . standing . . . seen!”
Jack’s raven screeched.
A lanky black cat peeled out of the shadows, winding itself around Van’s ankles. Its bright eyes glittered up at him, slit pupiled. Predatory.
Once more, Nail’s deep, clear voice sliced through the din. “And just what has he seen?” Nail waited for quiet before continuing. He turned to Van, opening his hands. “Why don’t you tell us, Van Markson, exactly what you have seen.”
Van swallowed. “Well . . . ,” he began. He glanced at Pebble, hoping for some subtle signal that would tell him just how much to say. But she and the squirrel just stared back at him, petrified. Van pulled his eyes away. “I . . . I noticed that the floors are pretty clean, even though there are a lot of pigeons down here.”
Nail’s lips twitched. “And?”
“And . . . I noticed the room full of maps and charts. The one named the Atlas.” Van glanced nervously from Nail to Jack, who had once again taken the spot just over his right shoulder. “And I noticed that all the books in this room match, so I suppose they’re more for writing things down than for reading things. I think maybe they have something to do with birthdays. And I noticed there are a whole bunch of things sealed in bottles down there in that huge room, like little glowing coins, and something that looks like candle smoke. I noticed Pebble really doesn’t want me here. And I noticed that—I think—there’s something really, really big down there in the dark, and that Pebble won’t talk about it. But that’s . . .” Van stopped, his mouth going dry. “That’s all.”
The crowd around him had fallen silent. No one moved, not even the spiders or the birds. An echoing absence hung in the air.
“That’s all,” said Nail at last, very softly.
“He’s dangerous. I told you.” Jack’s voice was like a blade on the back of Van’s neck. “He needs to be contained.”
“We can’t keep him,” said the sleek-haired woman with a pigeon on her shoulder. Van turned to watch her face. “People will search. Is that what we need, Jack? A city full of people trying to find us?”
“What do you suggest, Sesame?” Jack growled. His dark eyes snapped to Van. “If you don’t want to keep him, shall we get rid of him entirely?”
Van’s heart shot into the back of his mouth. His body tensed to run.
“No,” said Nail.
Jack’s raven gave a little caw deep in its throat. No one else spoke.
Nail bent close to Van’s face. His eyes were gray and cool and steady. “By coming here,” he said, “by speaking to us—just by seeing us—you have put yourself in serious danger. You must never let anyone know about us. Do you understand?”
Van nodded, because there was nothing else to do.
“Do not come back here. Do not mention a
nything about us, or about this place, to anyone. We will be watching you. If you do tell anyone, we will know.”
Van swallowed.
Nail leaned even closer. “And if we find out that you have spoken of us, you and anyone you’ve told will have to be . . . removed. Understood?”
Van nodded again.
Nail put out one long-fingered hand.
Van stuck out his smaller one. They shook.
“We have your word.” Nail straightened up to his full height. “Now,” he said, “Pebble will escort you out.”
The chamber exploded into action. Birds soared off in all directions. Rodents skittered for the staircases. Dark-coated people strode back to the shelves and tables or disappeared through the chamber’s entrance. Even Jack, after one more look at Van, stalked off into the darkness.
“Really?” Pebble whispered to Nail, just loudly enough that Van could hear.
“Take him back where he belongs.” Nail didn’t whisper. “If he’s not a total fool, he’ll realize how lucky he’s been.” He nodded at Van. “Good-bye, Van Markson.”
Pebble hesitated for an instant. Then she turned and hurried toward the staircase. Van ran after her. When he glanced back one last time, he saw that Nail and his rats were still watching him, all of them standing utterly still in the lamplight.
Fear usually made Van even quieter than usual. But now the quiet just made him feel alone. And the only person who made him feel less alone was the weird girl with the mossy penny eyes.
“So . . . ,” he began, as he followed her up the flight of stairs. “Your name is Pebble?”
Pebble didn’t answer.
“That’s a funny name.”
Pebble’s head whipped around. “Van is a funny name,” she said. “Especially for someone your size. They should have named you Minivan.”
“Ha!” cried Barnavelt. “Minivan! I get it! Minivan!”
Van sighed.
The squirrel went on chuckling all the way up the flight.
“Why did you name him Barnavelt?” Van asked when the squirrel finally stopped laughing.
Pebble glanced back. Her eyes were sharp. “Who told you his name was Barnavelt?”
Van pretended he hadn’t heard this. He looked over his shoulder, toward the archway of the Atlas, where a few dark-coated grown-ups hurried about their work. “Are there any other kids down here?”
Pebble didn’t turn around this time, but Van saw her spine stiffen. “Not right now,” she said.
For a moment, Van kept quiet, watching the bottom of Pebble’s coat whisk ahead of him across the floor of the huge entry chamber. He waited until they were halfway up the flight of stairs that led to the City Collection Agency before asking, in the most casual voice he could manage, “What was that huge sound?”
Pebble hesitated. “What sound?”
“That sound. That huge earthquake sound.”
“Nothing. Just—something in the Hold.”
“What’s the Hold for?” asked Van.
“Holding things,” said Pebble.
“What things?”
“Lots of things.”
“Lots of things,” echoed Barnavelt. “I know lots of things. My name. Your name. How to open a walnut. When a twig is too thin. Lots of numbers. Like three. That’s a number. Twenty-one-hundredy. That’s another number. . . .”
“And the big room full of bottles,” Van plunged on. “What’s the glowing stuff inside all of them? What does it have to do with coins and smoke and little bones? Is it chemicals, or atoms, or—”
Pebble turned around so suddenly that Van almost crashed into her. The squirrel on her shoulder gave a start. “Well, hello there!” Barnavelt squeaked, as though he was seeing Van for the first time in days. “How have you been?”
“You ask too many questions,” said Pebble, in a voice like the edge of a steak knife. “You can’t know because you can’t know.”
But Van had just put the pieces together. His thoughts weren’t going to be sliced apart now, not even by a steak knife. The chamber full of bottles. Piles of coins. Smoke from birthday candles. Tiny broken bones.
Wishbones.
“Are you collecting people’s wishes?” he breathed.
Pebble grabbed Van so hard that he let out a squeak. Without a word, she shoved him through the hidden doorway, across the dingy office of the City Collection Agency, and straight out the front door.
Van stumbled onto the sidewalk. The daylight was blinding. In the street, cars vroomed and honked. The sudden noise of the city pounded against the pulse in his head. By the brightness of the sky, he could tell that it was still afternoon, but that was all. He could have run away from Peter’s party an hour ago. Maybe two hours. Maybe more.
Pebble, hurrying through the door behind him, said something Van couldn’t hear. Then she broke into a run.
Van jogged after her. His legs ached from climbing hundreds of stairs. His chest hurt. The world was much too loud and cluttered. But even worse than all that noise was the thought of what his mother would do when she learned that he’d run away. He could picture her terrified face, smell her perfume as she reached out to grab him . . . and there his imagination switched off. He couldn’t begin to guess what his mother would do next. Because Van had never done anything even half this bad in his entire life.
He staggered down the next sidewalk, and the one after that, and the one after that, chasing the ends of Pebble’s flying ponytail.
Are you . . . , he thought he heard Pebble yell.
Are you what? Maybe she’d just said hurry up. Van was running as fast as he could. But after all those staircases, and all those long city blocks, his legs were turning to rubber.
Abruptly Pebble stopped. Van saw her stare at something just across the street. Her body went rigid. She reeled backward.
“Go!” she yelled, shoving Van in front of her. “You’re almost there!”
Van stumbled over the curb and into the street.
In his last glimpse of her, Pebble was whirling around, her face tight with panic, tearing back in the direction from which they’d come.
A sound like the roar from the Hold hammered in his ears. The air turned foggy, as if a dense cloud had burst just above him. And then, as Van took another staggering step—
The world tilted.
There were a few long, frozen moments when Van realized that he was flying. But not like SuperVan would fly. More like a plant would fly if you knocked it out of a window.
Then his right side seemed to catch fire. His head thumped cement, and he felt one hearing aid slip out of his ear and tumble away. The roar thickened. His head clanged. Above him, the sky spun with rooftops and the leafy tips of trees.
Between Van and the spinning sky stood a giant yellow insect. The insect seemed to be saying something. A second later, a pair of hands hoisted Van gently off the pavement and onto his behind.
Van sat up, blinking.
The insect turned into a man in yellow spandex, a bike helmet, and sunglasses.
Somebody put the lost hearing aid in Van’s hand. Van worked it back into position.
“—ook both ways,” the insect-bike man was yelling. “Rang my bell . . . shouted . . .”
“He may not have heard you,” said a smooth voice from just over Van’s shoulder. “He’s deaf.”
“Hard of hearing,” Van corrected. The pounding in his head made him close his eyes.
An arm braced Van’s shoulder. “Are . . . right? . . . Hurt?”
“I . . .” Van touched his sore hip. He had landed on his side. The side with the glass bottle in the pocket. He wriggled his stinging hand through the cloth.
The bottle was there. Safe and sound.
But his pants had a dirty, rubbed splotch on the hip, and when he pulled his hand back out of his pocket, he saw that his palm was scraped raw.
“. . . hit your head?” said the close voice.
“That landed second,” said Van. “I just bumped it. I think.”
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More words and noises dribbled around him, but Van wasn’t really paying attention anymore. Confusion coursed from his pounding heart out through the rest of his aching body, and by the time his eyes focused again, the insect-bike man was whirring away.
Van turned to the right.
Seated beside him on the curb was an older man in a white suit. He had neatly wavy gray hair and blue eyes surrounded by crinkly smile lines. The smile that went with them was encouraging and warm, like a doctor might give you after a booster shot.
“I’m sure you don’t remember me,” said the man. “I am Ivor Falborg.”
“I’m—”
“You are Giovanni Markson,” said the man. “Or Van, for short.”
Van blinked. “How do you know?”
“Oh, I’m quite the opera aficionado,” the man explained. “I met you and your glorious mother at an Opera Guild party a few months ago.” He rose to his feet, pulling Van with him. “Are you sure you’re all right? I’d be happy to hail a taxi.”
“No,” said Van. “I can walk. I think.”
“Then I hope you’ll let me walk you home, at the very least. I live in your neighborhood.”
“Oh . . . I’m not going home,” said Van, with a fresh sinking feeling in his stomach. “I have to go back to the Greys’ house.”
“Charles and Peter Grey?” Mr. Falborg’s smile crinkled again. “They are dear friends of mine! Now you must let me escort you. We’re only a few minutes away.”
Mr. Falborg was right. As soon as they turned the next corner, Van recognized the row of snooty stone houses and wide front steps.
And there, at the foot of one set of steps, was a police car.
A few of the boys from the birthday party were gathered on the sidewalk, throwing acorns at one another. Peter sat on the curb with his arms folded over his chest. Peter’s nanny was sobbing something to a police officer, who was jotting on a tiny notepad. Standing on the sidewalk, one hand clenching the silk scarf around her throat, her eyes flicking up and down the street, was Van’s mother.
Van’s stomach suddenly felt like a bowl of cold oatmeal. He slunk up the sidewalk toward the crowd, squeezing as much of himself into Mr. Falborg’s shadow as he could.
The Collectors Page 5
